


COLD

by Moonshape



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F, No Lesbians Die, Queers in Space, Some Fluff, not much smut compared to my usual offerings, quadriptych, some KJ fantasy in a staff meeting time, some Seven in the snow, some morning sex implied, some no reason imaginary submission because its been an awful year and I deserve a treat too, tis the season after all, yes that is now my new favourite word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonshape/pseuds/Moonshape
Summary: A short but (hopefully) sweet established J/7 quadriptych (yes, I did have to look that word up but now I'm keeping it forever 😁)
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	1. Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vavavavoom_beautifulbeautifulbombshell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vavavavoom_beautifulbeautifulbombshell/gifts).



> This is for @vavavoom_beautifulbeautifulbombshell because being their friend is, quite genuinely a pleasure and a privilege 🤗🤗🤗
> 
> It's a while since I've had the time, energy or mindset to write 😫 and I feel like I may have forgotten a bit how to do so. But I hope some of you might enjoy this little.....group of whatever these are. And I hope this won't be the last thing I write this year - AO3 has really given me life in 2020 and I appreciate so much anyone who reads, leaves kudos and/or comments 💙💚💛

Cold.

Relentless, damp cold.

The kind which creeps into your bones, and takes up residence there. The hedgerows glisten with it, and the path - such as it is - is slick with wet, rotting leaves. 

She can see her breath as she walks and the silence is absolute. She is aware of being startlingly, entirely alone. The mist furls and unfurls in front and to the sides of her and she can practically feel it being dragged into her lungs each time she inhales. Heavy and stifling. 

She doesn’t know where she is going, or why. That in itself is not necessarily unusual; she is, after all, an explorer. But there is a quiet, uncomfortable panic beginning to flutter inside her throat. A panic that threatens to spill out of her in a sharp, wild cry for the one person - the only person - who will always be her compass. Who can anchor her in time and space.  _ Seven _ .

When she wakes up she is soaked, drenched in sweat and shivering, alone.

Cold.


	2. Fantasy

Cold.

Aching, torturous cold.

The kind that sends an electric shiver down her spine, a straight line from her smarting, hypersensitive nipples pressed against the hard wall; she struggles to control a shudder at the explicitness of her own mental image.

She imagines arching her back, feeling the ghost of lithe, familiar fingers run down the length of her naked spine. Far, far too slowly. Seven’s feverishly hot breath plays across her shoulders, not even coming close to what she needs. She sags her whole body, forehead touching the cool of the wall, knees pressing even harder into the carpet. She holds her arms behind her back, unmoving. Untied, but unmistakably submissive. The searing heat of her need becomes the single, central point of her existence.

When she pulls herself, reluctantly, out of the depths of the daydream, her cheeks are hot, glowing. The table is quiet - waiting, it seems, for her answer or her dismissal and she knows she has been caught. But there is no regret when she looks up and Seven meets her eyes with a stormy mixture of hungry fascination and unfettered desire.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up in acute, delicious anticipation and Kathryn trembles slightly with the intensity of it.

Cold.


	3. Holodeck

Cold.

Bracing, icy cold.

The kind that shocks you back to glorious, endless childhood winters. The kind made even better by the knowledge that there are hot drinks just inside, and a bath big enough for two. 

When Seven turns, her woolly hat and matching mittens alone are enough to provoke a squeal of glee. The lights of the house behind her glow with warmth and love. Each evergreen along the path smells just as good as the real thing; the care and attention Seven puts into creating and maintaining this private world of theirs takes Kathryn’s breath away on every single visit. Even the snow - and she can’t help trying - tastes like home.

She scoops it up in her hands and throws it into the air like confetti, marvelling at the shards of light it catches and reflects on its way down. Seven watches her, at first, as though she is a little mad before disappearing behind a tree, starting something secretive herself with fistfuls of snow. 

There is - unmistakably - a giggle, before a wet and perfectly formed snowball hits Kathryn square on the jaw.

Cold. 


	4. Morning

Cold. 

Perfect, thrilling cold.

The kind that is her very favourite of all - the one she feels only in the contrast between her chilly, exposed skin and the warm, skilful hands of the woman she loves running over it.

She is awake but her eyes are closed, eager to hold herself completely in this moment of bliss between night and day, in this simple, all-consuming worship of her body. Seven's touches, teasing out each knot in her shoulders before raking nails down her sides, erase every ounce of tension her body holds. She feels smooth, hot palms cup her buttocks and sighs, loud and long. It is a sound of shameless contentment, one she had forgotten she could make for so many years.

Seven eases her legs apart with one knee and suddenly she is everywhere - Kathryn is swimming in her smell, in the caress of kisses across her shoulder blades, in the tantalising weight of legs straddling her from behind. In the fluttering thrill of expectation and love. 

A confident, soft hand slides up the inside of one thigh and pauses, forcing her to beg, resting there until she does. 

_ Warm.  _


End file.
